


There Will Always Be Demons

by WoW-Archive (Kryptaria)



Series: Tales of Azeroth [2]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/WoW-Archive
Summary: The Burning Legion has been defeated. Lord Illidan has become Sargeras' jailor. What are his Illidari expected to do now?





	There Will Always Be Demons

“In recognition of the service of the Illidari, whose tireless efforts and immeasurable sacrifice contributed to the great victory on Argus and the defeat of Sargeras, Lady Tyrande Whisperwind does hereby decree that the Illidari of kaldorei descent are hereby granted amnesty. Furthermore, those who wish to reclaim their place in kaldorei society and who do swear to abide by the laws of the kaldorei, upon assurance of their oath, shall be granted free passage within all kaldorei lands and holdings,” the human declared in a booming voice that echoed off the fel-encrusted basalt walls where half of the demon hunter army had gathered.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the low rumble of engines that kept the warship in geostationary orbit above the shattered demon world of Mardum.

The human cleared his throat and rolled the scroll back up with quick, jerky movements that betrayed his unease every bit as much as the flare of Shadow magic twisting around his skin. He was powerful, this emissary of the Kirin Tor, and it took courage (or foolhardiness) for a warlock to step through the portal to a stronghold of demon hunters, but he was alone. He had no demon with him, no weapon. Only his wits and a satchel of documents.

As he bent to rifle through the satchel, one of the Illidari broke the silence. “That’s it?” she demanded incredulously.

“Amnesty and free passage?” Another Illidari scoffed, somewhere in the middle of the crowd. “I lost my home!”

Wings flaring abruptly into the wall to one side, a third said, “All those years in prison —”

“Try _ten millennia_ ,” rumbled one of the eldest, voice so rich with demonic fury, even some Illidari stepped away.

The human froze in the midst of rising, a new scroll clutched in a hand that was no longer purely human. Feral energy rippled over the emissary’s body, hinting at a thick coat of fur, sharp fangs, even a tail. The warlock was one of _those_ humans then, one who wore his beast outside as well as within.

 _And they call_ us _monsters,_ Vellisra thought, watching the warlock struggle to remain calm as more voices added to the clamor.

That he managed was testament to his strength. He stood upright, ignoring the angry mutters, and unrolled the new scroll with a sharp _snap_. The ribbons fixed to the bottom of the scroll fluttered, sparking with the Light’s magic, anchoring the scroll’s ink to keep the words from being altered or erased.

“From His Majesty Anduin Wrynn, King of Stormwind, High King of the Alliance,” the emissary called out, resolutely ignoring the angry shouts. “None who stand outside the ranks of the Illidari can truly understand the sacrifice each of you has made. You risked your very souls to turn the Legion’s power against itself. You were the speartip poised at the heart of the Burning Legion. When the greatest demons of Outland looked upon you, they learned the meaning of fear — as did all the people of Azeroth.”

Voices that had fallen silent rose again, a tide of angry muttering in a half-dozen languages, both mortal and demonic. The emissary stood unmoving, scroll raised like a shield against the anger of the Illidari, until the voices ebbed once more.

“We looked upon you in fear, and you were locked away, condemned as traitors to the living, as agents of the Burning Legion, as monsters.” One of the Illidari snarled, but the human continued reading, “For this, I apologize.”

_What?_

Vellisra straightened, willing her senses to sharpen, focusing on the emissary and the scroll in his hands. Even if she’d had physical eyes, she wouldn’t have been able to see through the enchanted parchment to the ink on the other side, and her spectral sight gave her no ability to read minds, but she sensed no deception. There was no tensing of muscles or flare of Shadow power as the human braced against someone uncovering a lie. He wasn’t improvising, adding words he thought the Illidari wanted to hear.

It seemed the young human King had actually written the words the emissary had spoken. How curious.

“For too long, the Alliance has been plagued by war, by famine, by treachery from within and enemies from places we never imagined. Our beloved planet has been wounded, perhaps mortally. We are all bowed beneath the weight of loss, and every day is a struggle to continue.

“None know that struggle so well as you, the Illidari. Unbroken, you carried that burden into battle, inspiring all the people of Azeroth to strike with you. You have fought beside the Alliance, and now I invite you to join with us. Take shelter within our city walls. Find protection in our system of justice. As you inspire us with your strength and dedication to noble purpose, let us remind you of the simpler reasons to live: the warmth of friendship, the joy of shared laughter, the community of disparate people coming together to build something better.

“Let it be known that the Illidari are to be welcomed as heroes of the Alliance, treated with the respect and honor due to all allies of Stormwind. Signed and sealed by Anduin Wrynn, King of Stormwind, High King of the Alliance.”

The emissary paused for a long moment, allowing the young King’s words to sink in. Then he released the bottom of the parchment, allowing the magic to pull the scroll back into a neat, tight cylinder. Slowly, the Illidari began whispering to one another, their voices no longer full of despair or anger.

“He should have started with that one,” someone murmured not too far from where Vellisra stood, and more than a few others voiced their agreement. The contrast between Tyrande’s grudging acceptance and King Anduin’s wholehearted welcome was glaring.

Not that Vellisra expected anything different. The blood that ran through her veins was more fel than kaldorei. Ten thousand years ago, she had recognized the threat the Burning Legion posed — and the futility of using conventional means to keep their lands safe. For as long as the Burning Legion existed, “safety” was an illusion. And while most kaldorei were content to delude themselves into thinking they could contain the threat, others had embraced Illidan’s example and followed him into the felfire. For that choice, they were forever outcast from their people, even now.

On the platform, the emissary had pulled yet another scroll from his satchel. “The Council of Three Hammers, leaders of Ironforge —”

“What of the others?” one of the Illidari interrupted, startling the emissary out of his recitation.

“The... others?”

“The sin’dorei.”

The human’s energy sparked and fizzled before flaring anew, refreshing the protective weave of Shadow settled into his skin. “I believe...” He licked his lips and shifted his weight, looking past the gathering to the doorway. On the far side of the _Fel Hammer,_ another Kirin Tor emissary was addressing the rest of the Illidari: the pale-skinned descendants of the quel’dorei. “I believe they are receiving a similar welcome from the Warchief of the Horde.”

The answer should have been obvious, Vellisra realized, hearing renewed anger in the voices around her, shouts of protest that had probably been prepared when they’d been segregated in the first place. How naive she was, thinking they’d been divided into groups by language, not politics.

“We, ah, that is, the Alliance is negotiating a treaty with the Warchief’s representatives,” the human said, letting his hand fall to his side, the scroll forgotten. “No one is asking you to take arms against your Blood Elven allies.”

 _“Siblings,”_ more than a few Illidari corrected, Vellisra among them. She, at least, couldn’t care less about racial alliances and petty political conflicts. The Illidari had destroyed the homeworld of the Nathrezim, but there were countless thousands more felsworn worlds in the Twisting Nether. Every day, careless warlocks tore rifts between the worlds to summon demons and infernal magic.

In the face of such an eternal threat, what use was petty mortal bickering over boundaries and titles?

“We are inviting _all_ the Illidari,” the human said, rustling the scroll to try and regain control of the presentation, “to join with the people of Azeroth. King Anduin has issued similar invitations to the students of Alleria Windrunner, as well as the valiant draenei of the Army of the Light. It is His Majesty’s deepest wish for _peace_ to reign...”

The human trailed off as the Illidari began to whisper once more, most of them resorting to the harsh syllables of Eredun for privacy. Vellisra kept silent, patiently taking it all in, weighing her options. So, too, did a few of the other Illidari present — mostly those who were older, who had followed Illidan from the beginning.

Unlike their master, they had experienced none of time’s passage during their imprisonment, but they felt the weight of those millennia all the same. They were the tip of the spear, and they had spent untold centuries perfecting their aim before taking out their prey with a single strike. They understood the value of patience.

* * *

The Kirin Tor emissary never did get the chance to read the rest of his scrolls. After repeated empty assurances that no one was trying to fracture the ranks of the Illidari (which was, in Vellisra’s mind, a blatant lie), the questions had turned to logistics: food and housing, weapons, and so forth. Vellisra probably should have stayed to listen — she had to eat more than just the flesh of demons, after all — but impatience drove her from the chamber.

She wasn’t the only one. Some who’d slipped out early were already heading for the portal to Dalaran, their meagre belongings in rucksacks and satchels. In the main central chamber, Altruis was holding an impromptu conference of his own, addressing a large group of mostly foot soldiers. Probably seizing power for himself, now that Illidan was out of his way. Vellisra bit back a snarl, ignoring the inner voice that whispered, “Make him pay for his disloyalty!”

Instead she stepped through the portal, emerging on the shattered wall of the hovering city. She hopped off without bothering to summon her wings, landing in a crouch with one hand pressed to the flagstone. Through that touch, she felt a thrum of energy a thousand times more powerful than the rumbling engines of the _Fel Hammer_.

Dalaran was awash with magical power the likes of which she’d never imagined, a complex web of interlocked spells cast and reinforced by mages of all races, including the Blue Dragonflight — and the kaldorei, who had embraced the use of magic once more. For the briefest moment, she imagined _wielding_ this power. Not so long ago, by her reckoning, she’d dedicated every waking moment to studying such magic.

Now, though, that power was forever out of her reach. The talons that wielded raw fel energy were wholly unsuited for the delicate manipulation of the arcane.

Just as well. She’d found her calling in the war against the Burning Legion. And though her blood-family was long since dead, she’d found a new family — one that would never be taken from her for any reason. Certainly not _politics_.

Familiar fel energy called to her from across the city. She pried one of the pulsing green gems from her belt and tossed it into the air, exerting her will. Shadowy fel energy coalesced as the massive felstalker bound to the gem manifested, a low growl rising from its throat. Its crest of spines quivered as she climbed into the saddle, willing the demon into a trot through the bustling streets, past vendors and entertainers performing for spare change.

The Illidari were a familiar enough sight here that no one recoiled from her, and the Kirin Tor guards did no more than nod to her as she passed their watchposts. They didn’t even whisper a warning when she stepped off the sidewalk for a side alley leading to a shady back terrace where another section of wall had crumbled. There, she dismounted, banishing the felstalker back into the gem, which she pressed back into place on her belt.

When she leaped off the edge, her blood thrilled with a rush of fear-confidence-power as she plummeted, then snapped out her wings. She didn’t have the strength for true flight, but this long, slow glide was a close second, and she couldn’t hide a sigh of satisfaction as she landed beside her brother Illidari.

“Vellisra,” he said, nodding her way. A lock of hair fell into his face, and he pushed it back with a habitual huff that never ceased to amuse her. Like so many sin’dorei, he was too vain to cut his hair short or pull it back in a more practical style. It hadn’t been a problem until a few months ago, when he’d consumed the soul of a nathrezim, manifesting that power with long, thick horns that curved forward and up.

“Rithael.” She returned the nod, her utilitarian ponytail brushing against her nape. In Eredun, their most comfortable common language, she asked, “How was your meeting?”

“How do you think?” He snorted derisively. “They sent a _warlock_ to address us.”

“It was negotiated,” she countered. “Their experience with fel magic made them the least likely to break under the strain of Mardum’s energy.”

His growl was pitched too low to come from a purely mortal throat, but he showed no other sign of losing control. “It was a pointed message: ‘Warlocks are accepted, respected members of both the Horde and the Alliance. Deal with it.’”

“Hmm.” She shrugged, idly trying to remember if the quel’dorei had studied fel magic and demonic summoning before the Scourge ravaged their lands or if they hadn’t crossed that line until after the Sunwell’s destruction. So much had happened in the ten thousand years she’d slept, the whole timeline was muddled.

“They’re covering their asses,” he continued flatly. “This way, the second one of us attacks a free-roaming demon that turns out to have been summoned, we can get arrested and thrown back in prison, because they warned us.”

She tipped her head, turning to him, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that a bit paranoid?”

“Maybe in Alliance lands, but in Quel’Thalas?” He shook his head, then shoved his hair back out of his face, dragging the errant locks behind one horn. “I have a sister who’s part of the City Guard. The laws are more complex than most spellbooks — not to mention packed with traps and loopholes.”

“But you _are_ welcome, as long as you don’t go slaughtering anyone’s demons?”

He shifted, wings flickering and vanishing, and finally gave a slow nod. “I suppose, yes... A great many of those complicated laws are based in our... you know. Our _problem_.”

She nodded, thinking not of the modern sin’dorei (and certainly not of the strange Suramarians who’d created the Nightwell) but of her old Highborne instructors in the arcane arts. She’d thought their refusal to give up magic a matter of stubbornness and politics, reckless as it was, but perhaps it had been something more. Had they been _addicted_ even back then, ten thousand years ago?

“She doesn’t know,” Rithael said, pulling Vellisra out of her hazy memories and back to the present. “Neither of my sisters know.”

“What?”

“That I’m alive. That I’m” — he spread his hands, the action mirrored by the flare of his wings — “this.”

She turned to fully face him, opening her senses to power despite the dizzying wash of color that kept Dalaran aloft over the war-torn battlefield. His energy was muted, ruthlessly muffled but not completely hidden. It was too deep in his bones and blood and spirit to be completely suppressed, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

“We are Illidari,” she said, her voice rumbling with anger, overlaid by the buzz of all the fel power she’d consumed since she’d first set foot on Illidan’s path. “Be proud of all you have achieved — all you have sacrificed to protect our world from the Burning Legion. _Never_ feel shame for having the courage to do what others did not dare to consider.”

He showed that courage now, standing his ground in the face of her sudden demonic rage, despite the difference in their age and height and battle experience. If he said anything, thouogh, it was lost under the tumult of whispers bubbling through her veins, urging her to destroy him as unworthy, to rend his flesh, to carve his very soul into pieces she could consume and claim for herself.

_No._

She took deep breaths, centering her mind with tricks she’d learned in her childhood. As the whispers quieted, she focused once more on Rithael, who’d taken a wary step back, though he hadn’t drawn his warglaives. Not yet.

As she exhaled, he crossed his arms and scoffed. “It’s not _shame_ that’s kept me from contacting my sisters.”

She took her cue, asking, “Then what is it?” in a voice that was hollow but no longer buzzing.

“As I said, one is a guard. The other?” The way his energy sparked told her his smile was more sardonic than amused. “She’s a paladin.”

A shiver of rage went up her spine at the thought. The “Light” was still something of a new concept to her, but she didn’t need to understand its philosophy to be furious at what that naaru had tried to do to Lord Illidan. With ruthless practicality, she asked, “Is she a threat?”

Rithael didn’t hesitate to say, “No. Our family has always come first. She wouldn’t _harm_ me. She’d just...” He took a deep breath, briefly turning away. “She might not understand, that’s all. I don’t know how I’d react, if she looked at me like a stranger.”

“Oh.” Vellisra nodded, anger turning to sympathy, though somewhat distantly. She had wilfully severed ties with her family when she’d chosen to dedicate her life to destroying the Burning Legion. And after ten millennia of war and strife, she had no idea if any of them or their descendants were even alive. Rithael, though, had to feel a much closer connection to his sisters. He’d been apart from them for... however long it had been since the Third War (at least, as some human scholar numbered wars in this modern era; she’d put the number far higher than merely three). In any case, Rithael’s next steps were clear to her. “You need to go to them.”

Taken aback, he asked, “Why?”

“As you said. Your family comes first,” she reminded him.

He started to nod, then caught himself, lifting his chin to regard her. “I know you, Vellisra. That’s not the only reason,” he challenged.

One corner of her mouth twitched up. “Lord Illidan may have destroyed the naaru who tried to enslave him, but the Light has servants everywhere. You have the perfect excuse to safely get close to one of its paladins.”

“You want me to spy on her.” It came out blunt, not as an accusation.

She shrugged, unconcerned. “The Light has proven itself a threat to our very existence.”

He snorted, fel energy blurring the sky at his back as his wings nearly manifested. “True. And I have questions of my own for her,” he added, his voice taking on the deep echo of the nathrezim inside his soul.

There was a story there, but now wasn’t the time. She had no idea how long he’d been standing (or moping) on this lonely floating island, but even a few minutes was too long. He was a creature of action, not contemplation.

Impulsively, she pried one of the gems off her belt and offered it to him. “Take this,” she said, holding it out for him to study. “No need to stable or feed it. Keep it on you at all times, in case you need to make a quick escape.”

He plucked the gem from her palm, then hissed in a gasp, tattoos flaring in a brilliant pulse timed to the felstalker’s energy. “This is...” He clenched his fist, and the power racing through his tattoos subsided. “I can’t repay you.”

“You swore your life to Lord Illidan’s cause,” she reminded him. “There is no debt between us. No matter what happens with your sisters — or with this ridiculous ‘war’ between the Horde and the Alliance — _we_ are also your family.”

“Always,” he agreed, stowing the gem in a pocket hidden in a fold of his kilt. “What about you? Do you have a home? Or family” — he gestured away from Dalaran, away from the portal to the _Fel Hammer_ , away from the Broken Shore where the last great battles had been fought, at least on Azeroth — “out there?”

“No,” she said with an unconcerned shrug. Ten thousand years ago, she’d walked away from all she knew with the clothes on her back and the weapons in her hands. Since then, everything had changed — and nothing had. “I’ll find my path. If nothing else, there will always be demons to hunt.”

**Author's Note:**

> Legion gave us class halls where we could set our faction differences aside and fight as one against the Burning Legion. Then Battle for Azeroth threw cooperation in the toilet. (Sylvanas, WTF.) I can't imagine that went over well with everyone -- certainly not with my various alts.
> 
> And if you want a visual, meet Vellisra: https://twitter.com/JordanSBrock/status/1147651768806981632


End file.
